


The Stowaway

by Beginte



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond is a stowaway and it's a bit of a metaphor, Established Relationship, Ferry, Fluff, James Bond is a stubborn romantic and will do all he can to be home with Q on Christmas, M/M, Q loves him very much, Ship, Snow, a bit of outsider POV but mostly Bond POV, belated Christmas fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5680555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With French airports closed due to blizzard, Bond is determined to get home to Q by Christmas Day - so he stows away on a ferry.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>
  <i>Christmas has never been his thing, really, nor has it been Q’s. But something on this mission has filled him with deep, searing longing, a need to come home and be with Q, feel his soft lips and see the spark in his clever eyes. Now, with no means of communication and aware that for the last nine hours Q’s had no way of knowing where he is because the tracker that M (the previous M) had implanted in him years ago is long since dead, he’s overwhelmed with the need to get back to Q. It’s snowing, it’s Christmas Eve, and Bond finds himself soaring on the utterly romantic desperation to spend Christmas Day with Q, to infallibly turn up like a miracle on their home’s doorstep.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stowaway

**Author's Note:**

> I was suddenly and massively inspired by [ 'The Stowaway'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_O27sUcwNY) song from _Doctor Who_ s4 Christmas Special. I got _such_ Bond feels from it, go have a listen, it's a gorgeous song :D
> 
> Also, in the spirit of the song, the ferry Bond sneaks onto is a bit more festive than a 90 minutes Calais-Dover trip would normally be, but shhh. And I made Bond half-quote a bit of the song at one point. And I named the hostess girl Astrid because I terribly loved Astrid from that DW Xmas special.

* * *

Snowflakes catch in Bond’s hair as he rushes, squeezing and elbowing his way through a crowd of people, each breath cold in his chest in the blizzard. Wind swirls in flurries of snow and a rich scent of wintry sea; the docks filled with frantic people hoping for a way to cross the Channel, swaddled in their warmest clothes and hauling their luggage all the way from the airport where all the flights have been cancelled due to severe weather.

Bond slips in between impatient bodies and stuffed bags, pushing his way closer to the nearest ship bound to Dover - leaving in five minutes, if the information board is to be believed, and booked full.

It’s 9:20 pm, 24th of December, and all airports in France have been closed six hours ago. All the trains and ferries in all sorts of directions are besieged by people determined to get home by Christmas, and for the first time in his life, Bond is one of them.

It’s been a difficult mission out in Croatia: a chase culminating in the south of France, the way riddled with explosions and battles which gradually rendered Bond utterly bereft of any equipment or means of communication. Contact has been severed nine hours ago, the earwig glitching for a while already; one of the last things Bond said to Q was a teasing promise of ‘ _Don’t worry, dearest Q, you’ll have me home by Christmas’,_ to which Q reacted with a scoff. Soon after that the earwig gave out completely and Bond finally managed to dispatch the mark, thus accomplishing his mission. And also finding himself unintentionally off grid, out in France. All he has are his watch and the clothes he’s wearing, which, by the way, aren’t any sort of protection against the snowiest winter of the decade - just a black suit; he's even lost the tie at some point.

Using the crowds as cover he sneaks past a barrier and behind the back of a guard. He’s determined to keep his playful promise and get home to be with Q come Christmas Day.

Christmas has never been his thing, really, nor has it been Q’s. But something on this mission has filled him with deep, searing longing, a need to come home and be with Q, feel his soft lips and see the spark in his clever eyes. Now, with no means of communication and aware that for the last nine hours Q’s had no way of knowing where he is because the tracker that M (the previous M) had implanted in him years ago is long since dead, he’s overwhelmed with the need to get back to Q. It’s snowing, it’s Christmas Eve, and Bond finds himself soaring on the utterly romantic desperation to spend Christmas Day with Q, to infallibly turn up like a miracle on their home’s doorstep.

And so, with no luggage and no money, he sneaks his way onto the ferry; a stowaway. He has a good feeling about this ship, and it’s easier to sneak aboard a ferry than a train under the Channel. Ships have always been good to him and he knows his way around them, stern to hull. (He smiles, remembering the Turner painting and Q docking into his life on that bench in the Gallery.)

The wind and snow mingle in blows and swirls as the ship sets off, and he wanders out onto the deck, hopping over a railing and getting as close to the hull as possible, staring out into the dark night. The blizzard rakes through his hair and pierces his clothes, but the cold isn’t unbearable, it feels like he could fly home on it.

He listens to the sea churning, large, speeding snowflakes perishing in the night-blackened waters, the strong lights of the ship illuminating the rush of snow, and he _knows_ he’ll be with Q by Christmas. He’ll run and not stop until he’s home, and he’ll kiss Q’s sleep-warm smile and stroke his mussed hair and hear his rich, posh voice and feel his arms around him. He’ll take a hot shower to stave off a chance of cold, and then he’ll spend the whole day with Q, in their bed, just holding each other and dozing.

He’ll be with Q come Christmas Day.

* * *

Astrid is rather good at spotting stowaways. It happens more often than people would think, because security on ships is nowhere near so tight as it is on aeroplanes.

And now, with the Christmas rush crowds amplified by all the flights out of France being grounded, she’s willing to bet there are at least two, maybe three stowaways on each ferry out.

As a matter of fact, she spots one half an hour into the 9:25 Calais-Dover she’s working.

He’s very handsome to be sure - rugged features, piercing blue eyes, lovely jawline. He’s got the sort of looks and bearing that allow him to blend in among first class rather than hide away in nooks and crannies like most stowaways do, but he’s given away by an utter lack of luggage or even warm clothes. He’s also got a few scrapes on that handsome face of his, and she wonders what sort of a story is behind those. Granted, all this could be explained by some rather extraordinary but perfectly legitimate set of circumstances (family emergency, robbery, accident, what have you), but Astrid is _very_ good at spotting stowaways. She just _knows_.

She’s carrying a tray of champagne when she first notices him - he’s out on the deck, among a handful of people who fancy wandering out in the snow, which is kind of adventurous and romantic and she’d do it too if she weren’t only in her server’s clothes. She sees him through a window - he’s out on the hull (further than he should be), and there’s a sort of tension in his profile.

The second time she sees him is fifteen minutes later, and he’s indoors this time, mingling easily in the crowd of happy party-goers out on the dance floor. A band is playing cheery, upbeat Christmas carols tuned up to a dancing rhythm, and many people do dance indeed, enjoying their Christmas Eve - couples, families with children, single passengers chatting up and helping themselves to the buffet. This _is_ a Christmas cruise, after all.

_He_ isn’t dancing or eating. He’s strolling on the edges of the crowd, easy and seeming like he belongs here perfectly, even despite the interesting gash on his cheekbone and the freshly melted snowflakes in his hair. He catches Astrid’s gaze and his eyes twinkle, lips twitching in a playful smile. He knows she knows, somehow.

Still, he seems decent, stowaway or not. And he’s good-looking, _and_ it’s Christmas Eve, so Astrid decides to give him a fair chance.

She strolls over to him, and he waits for her, hands in his trousers pockets, the twinkle not vanishing from his eyes.

“You’re a stowaway,” she informs him cheerily, and he arches an eyebrow; maybe a bit surprised but not unpleasantly.

“It would seem so,” he has a lovely voice. He’s very charming - stowaways often are. Something tells her he’s a professional stowaway, hitching his way through life. It’s a metaphor.

“I ought to toss you overboard,” she smiles. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

He just smiles back and holds out a hand.

“How about a dance?”

She accepts. He’s a wonderful dancer, and Astrid happily makes up her mind to let this one slip. Still, she feels like a payment would be in order, so she demands a name and a story as they dance.

“The name’s James,” he says as he expertly leads, and Astrid’s danced with her fair share of customers as a hostess on holiday cruises - Christmases, New Years, summers - but he’s easily one of the best.

“So, James - what’s your tale, then?”

He smiles, blue eyes glinting again, a little wistfully.

“I’m trying to get home to someone,” he confesses in a soft tone that almost seems out of place combined with his features and the cut on his cheek and the slightly rumpled and dirtied suit. “I’ve been travelling to get home for the past 20 hours, and borrow or steal, I’ll find a way to be with my lover on Christmas Day.”

“Oh,” Astrid gasps a little, because this is just ever so beautiful and romantic. His hair is ruffled by wind and speckled with drops of melted snowflakes, and he hasn’t got a penny on him, and it’s wonderful.

He smiles again, the flame in his eyes only half-joking.

“And I’ll run and I’ll row if I have to - I’ll be with him on Christmas,” he declares, and there’s a beautiful, sincere fire in it. He drops the ‘him’ without any hesitation or unease, and Astrid feels like she loves him a little bit for it.

He tells her a little about his lover back home - he doesn’t even mention his name, but the way he talks about him is utterly besotted, even though he might be trying not to show it completely. He tells her he’s had an accident on the way and lost his phone and money and any means of communication, and he wants to get home to him by Christmas. Astrid is utterly charmed.

Later, once they’ve docked in Dover, he slips off the ship so well that she doesn’t even notice when exactly he does it. She thinks about him that night, thinks about him travelling such a long way through wind and snow, and she wonders if he reaches home as planned; if he’s just now sweeping his beloved up into a Christmas kiss.

She hopes he is.

* * *

Bond sneaks off the ship and aboard the nearest train to London. He bribes the train guard with his watch so as not to get kicked off, and thus he gets rid of his very last piece of any sort of equipment he’d been kitted out with. Q will be angry. Bond can’t wait for it. He thinks about the scowls, the posh voice scolding him in snarky tones, and he smiles, feeling warm despite running around in just a suit. It’s alright, he’s had worse, he deals well with cold.

He feels like he’s a little bit drunk, has felt this way since he got determined to be with Q on Christmas. He’s stubborn, so once he got the idea he latched onto it and now refuses to let go. Truth is, he _likes_ it. He likes the thought of sleep-warm Q welcoming him home and scoffing at the notion of getting there by Christmas but melting nonetheless.

Once in London, he’s welcomed by mostly empty streets glowing with holiday decorations and covered with a delicate, fresh carpet of snow. He’s brought the blizzard with him, but it’s gentler here; large, soft flakes floating in the air, filling it with quiet.

It’s 1:30 am and he’s penniless, with nothing of value to trade for a cab ride should he by some miracle find one, and stealing someone’s car seems like a shite thing to do on Christmas Day. And so he’s facing a trek from Victoria Station, across the endless Vauxhall Bridge and then several streets to get home.

A large snowflake lands on his nose. Q loves snow.

He starts walking.

* * *

He doesn’t know what time it is when he finally reaches home - he’s tired and covered with snow and actually beginning to be bothered by the cold, and he hasn’t got his watch anymore, so he can’t tell the time. But he thinks it might be close to 3 am, given how long the walk had been. The street is empty, quiet, asleep in the Christmas snow, and he looks at the door to their building, feeling a blissful sense of _at last_.

The snow keeps on falling softly as he punches in the code and slips in, the interior not very much warmer but still welcoming. A quick ride up on the lift, and he’s finally at the door of Q’s flat - _their_ flat, their home.

He hasn’t got any keys, so he rings the doorbell and hopes that Q is home rather than clocking in an inadvisably long night back at MI6. If that's the case, Bond will just sit here and wait, maybe close his eyes for a bit. Or try tampering with the locks so that Q’s phone beeps with an alert.

No such need. As he rings the doorbell for the second time, the locks grind and make the familiar, welcoming noise that promises warmth and safety of coming home. He hasn’t realised until now just how well-known this sound is to him.

And then the door opens, and there’s Q: sleep-mussed, with pillow creases pressed into his cheek, beautiful eyes squinting groggily behind the crookedly placed glasses, and Bond’s heart melts just a little. Or perhaps a lot.

“James?” Q’s eyes light up ever so gently, still sleepy but endlessly warm as he smiles, and Bond wraps his arms around him, selfishly pressing his cold nose into Q’s neck, delighting in the startled squeak.

“Happy Christmas, love,” Bond hums, and Q makes a sound between laughter and exasperated growl, hugging him back.

“You idiot, why aren’t you wearing proper clothes, you’re so cold, why did you rush, I could have waited,” Q says it all in one go, still a bit asleep, and Bond presses countless kisses into his neck, stepping inside the flat and shoving the door closed behind them.

“I told you I’d be home for Christmas,” he teases, and Q groans, but then he chuckles, pulling back to kiss him properly.

“Idiot,” he says with overwhelming fondness, eyes filled with love. “And you’ve lost everything on the way, haven’t you.”

“I brought you snow,” Bond offers softly against his lips, gesturing towards the window with one hand, his other arm still wrapped tightly around Q.

“Oh,” Q says quietly, because indeed it’s still snowing and because Bond is kissing his cheek, his nose, the corner of his mouth. “How terribly resourceful of you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Q kisses him again and it’s so warm and so simply affectionate that Bond stops feeling cold for a long while and just wants to be held and kissed like this for the foreseeable future.

Then, Q takes his hand and silently guides him into the shower where they both enjoy a hot spray. The water fills Bond’s blood with warmth and his chest with drowsiness, and Q’s slow, tender kisses make him feel utterly home. He’s knackered, weariness seeping into his bones in a very relaxing manner. Towelled dry and dressed in track bottoms, they get into bed, Bond feeling warm all over not only from the shower as he pushes his face into Q’s chest; Q’s fingers card gently through his drying hair, the monotony lulling Bond further towards slumber. He shifts a little, wrapping his arms around Q; he presses a few kisses into Q’s collarbone and then neck and then cheek, and Q’s quietly breathed laugh makes him hum and smile.

He peels one eye open to cast a sleepy look about their bedroom. There aren’t any decorations in the flat, there aren’t any lights or baubles or even cheekily placed mistletoe, but there is a vague glow coming in through the windows. It’s the streetlights and the decorations outside, their light scattered into a soft haze by the snow floating in peaceful silence all through the air. And that haze, along with the warmth of Q’s embrace and the accomplishment of Bond’s trek, does feel quite holiday-like.

It will be noon when they wake up, and they will spend much of the day idling in bed, and Bond will love Q’s mussed curls and flushed cheeks and misty eyes and groggy voice. They’ll make tea and breakfast, and Bond will shamelessly indulge in being able to have his hands on Q all day, and Q will grin and reciprocate. Q will probably want to take a stroll in the snow, and despite having strolled quite enough just hours ago, Bond will be happy to accompany him because Q’s love of snow lights up his face in an exceptionally lovely way.

_Yes_ , Bond thinks, _Christmas looks remarkably good this year_.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed :)
> 
> Bond is such a deeply romantic character, so I enjoy writing fics like this from time to time :D


End file.
